Union We Stand
by stress
Summary: Just because we didn't see them, it didn't mean that they weren't there. A series of one-shots uniting the original film and the Broadway show featuring characters from the movie that were cut from the stage show. Updated 06.19: Bryan Denton.
1. Sarah Jacobs

**Disclaimer**: Any characters you recognize in this story are the property of Disney and their likenesses are only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.

**Author's Note**: I've noticed there's been a bit of a divide between Newsies the film and Newsies the Broadway Musical fans. As for me, I love them both and while my first love will always be the film, the Broadway musical is just more to enjoy. That's where these shorts come from. This is my attempt to combine them because, the way I see it, just because there's Katherine in the show, does that really mean Sarah wasn't there? Or Denton? Or even Kloppman? Here's my attempt to say yeah. Yeah they were :) Or maybe I'm thinking too much about it. Either way... here you go!

* * *

**Union We Stand**

* * *

Because it was summer, it was still light out when Jack Kelly and the two Jacobs brother went their separate ways just outside the rear entrance to Irving Hall.

Then again, just because it was light out, that didn't mean it wasn't late. It was. Probably not as late as it could have been but, darn it, late _enough_.

David Jacobs didn't need his education for him to know _how_ late it was and what sort of trouble he might be in for staying out so long. So he spent the entire trip from the vaudeville theater home trying to come up with some sort of believable excuse for his tardiness because, well, lying was ultimately better than having to tell his mother and father that on his first day of work as a newsboy he had reluctantly befriended an escaped convict from the House of Refuge, had been chased by the warden of said Refuge, had thankfully escaped the man and then hid out in a such a questionable establishment for most of the evening.

Add in the fact that he had allowed his nine-year-old—sorry, "near ten"—little brother to tag along on his adventures and he could already hear his mother's shrill "Da-_vid_" in his head. With their father hurt and out of work, Mrs. Jacobs had finally relented and allowed her two sons do something that would earn the family some money. David doubted that her permission would extend to the kind of hi-jinks the two Jacobs boys had gotten into within one day of knowing Jack Kelly.

The way he saw it, what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her but what she learned might hurt _them_. The smartest thing he could do would be to keep his mouth shut. But then there was Les...

Oblivious to his older brother's anxiety, Les was humming an upbeat tune under his breath. David sighed. Unless he was mistaken, that sounded an awful lot like the vaudeville song Ms. Medda Larken was belting out during her performance at her theater—

"That's rich," Les sang out loud as he skipped a little ways ahead of David.

—no, no... he wasn't mistaken at all.

David grabbed Les by the back of his shirt, keeping him within reach so that the boy didn't accidentally get run over by a carriage or a cart or something. If taking his brother to the garish and, er, illuminating Irving Hall didn't somehow anger his mother, then coming home with an injured and squashed Les _definitely_ would.

"Hey!" Les grunted and tried to escape David's grip. "What's that for?"

David shook his head, glad his cap kept Les from seeing the flash of annoyance that made him frown. Huh. That was gratitude for you.

"Les, please, you have to stop singing that song. Do you want Mama to know where we've been?"

"But, Davey," marveled Les, his mind obviously still back at the theater with all the vaudeville performers, "the _legs_..."

"Yes, but imagine Mama finding out you saw those performer's legs."

Les's eyes went wide. He stopped struggling, too. "Alright. I'll stop singin'."

That was more like it. David nodded and, without letting go of Les's shirt, guided his brother the rest of the way back to their family's apartment.

Their mother was setting the small dinner table when they arrived, apologies for their lateness already on their lips. David tried to do most of the talking in order to keep Les from spilling anything he shouldn't, and apart from a stern look and a sigh, Esther Jacobs didn't say anything about their nearly missing supper.

Not yet, anyway.

David looked around the small apartment when he had finished with his apologies. His audience seemed rather scare. In fact, there was his mother, but no one else. "Where's Papa?"

"He went to sleep." A strand of Esther's thick blonde hair fell forward into her tired face. With a sad expression, she absently brushed it back behind her ear. "His leg was bothering him again, poor dear. I fed him his supper and tucked him in an hour ago."

"So we missed supper?" David asked, careful not to sound too disappointed. Maybe Mama wasn't setting the table—maybe she was _clearing _it. But he hoped not. It was all he could do to hide the fact that his empty stomach was growling.

"I waited for you. First day at work, you two deserve a good meal." She raised her eyebrows. "No matter how late it took you to sell your newspapers." Reaching out, she straightened one of the napkins she had placed at her husband's usual seat. "Oh, and David? There was something your father and I needed your help with tonight. You, too, Les. If you don't mind, would you help us before you go off to work tomorrow?"

"Of course, Mama," David said quickly. He gave Les a quick nudge. The younger boy nodded on cue.

"Good. Now tell me: how was it? Was it rough? Do you even want to go back tomorrow? You don't have to if you don't want to."

This time, David wasn't quite quick enough. Without even taking a breath, Les went on to mention Jack, the great Jack Kelly, the best newsie in the history of newsies who had taken them on as selling partners—"after I made sure he wouldn't cheat a little kid, Mama" "oh, how smart of you, my boy"—and how he was born to the breed, though Esther cut in to remind her youngest son that she wanted more from him than to simply sell newspapers on the corner. But that didn't stop Les.

With boundless energy—shouldn't he be sleeping by now, wondered David—he kept talking about Jack; seeing as how Irving Hall was an untouchable subject, he seemed to focus all of his attention on Jack Kelly. Which didn't seem too much of a bad thing until he heard Les mention Snyder the Spider and David cut him off with a gentle touch on his shoulder. Discussing the Refuge, its warden and Jack's escape were not Mama-appropriate topics of conversation.

His sense of preservation kicking in at last, Les stopped his gushing when he felt David's warning tap. Which, of course, left room for their mother to finally respond.

She didn't disappoint.

"You should have brought your new friend home, David. It would've been nice to put a face to this Jack Kelly." Esther clucked her tongue. "Haven't I taught you boys manners?"

"We tried, Mama," Les began, "but—"

David cut in before Les said anything that might arouse his mother's suspicions. "But Jack gets a good meal at the lodging house where he stays. Maybe next time, though. When we get to know him better—no one should have to miss your cooking," he added, giving his mother a doting kiss on her cheek.

That seemed to mollify his mother. "Yes, well, if you're this late again, you two just might be the ones missing out." Wiping her hands against the towel she had in her apron, Esther raised her voice. "Sarah, dear, you can bring out the supper. Your brothers are finally home."

Sarah Jacobs, sixteen years old and lovely, was David and Les's older sister. Like the two boys, she had offered to find some sort of work when Meyer Jacobs was injured, something respectable and suited for a good Jewish girl, but Esther wouldn't have it. Just the idea of Sarah going out to sell lace to the neighborhood women frightened her and, for that reason, Esther was very careful to keep Sarah home until she could find her a good Jewish boy to marry.

Even, thought David, if that wasn't what Sarah wanted.

With a welcoming smile on her pretty face and her long brown hair tied back, Sarah came out carrying a tureen of soup. It was still smoking and David felt his mouth watering. No one made soup as good a his mother. And he was _famished_.

Les hurried over to his sister, taking care not to get in her way in case the hot soup spilled. Matching her step for step, he waited until she had set the soup on the table in front of Esther before he started with a quick, "Hiya, Sarah! You'll never believe what we did today—"

David was too late to stop his brother again. Giving in at last and taking his seat at the table, he closed his eyes and prayed that his mother was too busy dishing out the soup to listen to anymore of his chatter.

But Les surprised him. It seemed, like before, he only had one topic of conversation he couldn't steer clear of. Then again, considering who he was talking to, it was probably a safe bet that even Les better knew to mention Ms. Medda's review and the costumes of her Bowery girls in front of Sarah.

"—and we got to meet this great newsie who showed us how to sell the papes. He's the best. His name is Jack and he's an _artist_. You should meet him, Sarah, he's really funny. Smart, too. Not smart like Davey, but he knows what he's talking about. He even knows the _governor_."

Sarah listened to Les's exuberance with a good-natured smile as she joined him at the table. She reached out and patted the top of his already ink-covered hand. "I'm sure I'll get the chance to meet your friend some day. But, for now, why don't you go wash up before supper?"

And, as Les hurried off to the kitchen to wash up before his mother noticed the color of his hands, David quirked one eye open and glanced at his sister and tried to imagine introducing her to Jack. His mother barely let him and Les out of the house to sell newspapers. He didn't think Esther's heart could take it if her only daughter even _spoke_ to a boy like Jack Kelly.

Digging into his soup at last, David wondered if perhaps he'd dodged a metaphorical bullet when Jack had declined his invitation. Manners or not, he might just have to forget to mention his family at all the next time he met Jack.

* * *

- _stress, 04.16.12_


	2. Bryan Denton

**Disclaimer**: Any characters you recognize in this story are the property of Disney and their likenesses are only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.

* * *

**Union We Stand**

* * *

Bryan Denton, ace war correspondent for the _New York Sun_, was absolutely exhausted.

It all started last July when he charged up San Juan Hill alongside Teddy Roosevelt and the excitement, the running, the _battles_... they hadn't stopped yet. Sure, the Spanish-American War ended in August, but then there was that scuffle with Germany and Britain over some island, that ruckus in China with the dowager and her son and now all eyes were on the Philippines.

Ah, he thought with a grimace, the _Phillipines_...

Dragging his weary feet into his office, all he wanted to do was kick back, put his feet up and undo his bow tie. He still had the beginnings of an article or two he wanted to get down to show his editor tomorrow, maybe drink a cup of black coffee to help him through it, before he could even think of returning to his cozy, one room apartment.

What a homecoming. Two weeks stationed down in Washington in the hope that he would get the best scoop when it came to the latest skirmish and, instead of sleeping in his own bed for a change on his return, he had to head into his office to explain why _no one _was getting any news at all from the front lines. If it wasn't for his easy-going nature, the unfairness of it all would make him want to throw down his pen.

Whoever said it would be easy being a war correspondent because most of the country believed they were at peace certainly didn't know what they were talking about. If there was one thing Denton learned early on in his reporting career it was this: American was always at war with someone. It kept the military busy, the government busy, and—most importantly—it kept the the newspapermen in business.

He couldn't complain. He had a job. It was just... the sigh Denton let out was almost a groan as he sat down at his desk for the first time in two weeks, picked up the pencil he had left behind and tapped it anxiously against the flat of his palm. It was just sometimes Denton wished he didn't have to _be _an ace war correspondent. Sure, it was exciting and high-profile and engaging but, well, was there anything wrong with being a regular beat reporter than got to cover ordinary news? Especially if it kept him out of the battlefields?

Gripping his pencil loosely, Denton leaned his eyes back and closed his eyes. Just five minutes, he begged of the newspaper gods, five minutes and then he would get to work—

"Denton, man! I heard you were back in New York. Tell me: how was It with the Filipinos?"

Denton reluctantly opened his eyes to find Henry Smith standing in the open doorway to his office with his camera and tripod under one arm and a folded newspaper in his other hand. A middle-aged, heavyset man with bright eyes and a mischievous grin, Smith was a photographer for the _Sun _who was always trying to take a picture that would make the front page. He didn't write much himself, he didn't fancy himself a reporter, but he was persistent and would take snapshots for any reporter unable to do so themselves.

But he was a good man, as close to a friend as a busy man like Bryan Denton could afford, and Denton greeted him with warm eyes and a welcoming wave.

As to Smith's question, though—

"Never even got there," Denton admitted, unable to hide his frown. It wasn't directed at Smith interrupting him, either. As a respected reporter, he was simply unused to the idea that there were just certain places his camera and his pen could get him into. In this case, it was the Phillipines and, after the last few weeks, he was still unsure which side in the war was gunning on keeping the media out. He let his pencil fall idly back to his desktop. "Had to do all my reporting from Washington."

Smith let out a boisterous laugh. "Still, that's better than what we had to deal with up here, I can tell you that, buddy."

Denton had to agree with the photographer. When he had boarded the train to Washington DC to find out just why American reporters were grounded in the United States when it came to the conflict with the Phillipines the headlines in New York had been awful. One week into the trolley strike and, apart from some sensational stories regarding riots amongst the strikers, there hadn't been much else worth publishing in the newspapers. Three weeks later and it seemed like the trolley strike still dominated the news.

Until Smith went on to add: "At least, until this morning, I should say." And then, grinning like the cat that ate the canary, Smith tapped himself in the chest with the paper in his hand.

That caught the veteran reporter's attention. "Really? What's today's headline?"

Smith placed the folded up copy of that morning's _Sun_ on the top of Denton's desk. "You'll have to see it to believe it. All I can say is that it knocked the trolley strike clean off the front page at last." His chest swelled out a bit with pride. "I took the picture, too. Above the fold, Denton, one of my snaps made it above the fold." He was beaming.

Denton automatically murmured his congratulations to the longtime photographer—considering Denton did his own picture taking, he never understood what it was Smith did following reporters around but he was a good man and Denton told him so—while picking up the paper and flipping it open. His eyes gravitated to the picture that dominated the top half of the paper.

There were about fifteen boys pictured in the frame, street urchins all of them. Ages ran from ten to twenty if Denton was any judge and it was clear from the stacks of papers they were standing on to the dirt on their cheeks that they were newsies—the boys and girls the newspaper giants employed to hawk the headlines and sell their wares.

But, thought Denton, the newsies _sold _the newspapers. What were they doing _in _it?

The headline below answered the question for him: **DAVID VS GOLIATH AT THE BRINK OF A NEW CENTURY**

"What's this?"

"Pulitzer and Hearst raised the prices for the newsies two days ago," explained Smith. "The kids answered by going on strike."

That was certainly news to Denton. Huh. So it seemed like Joseph Pulitzer, head of the _New York World_, and William Randolph Hearst, owner of the _Journal, _were being mocked by their own undersized employees and the _New York Sun _was running the story. He was glad he hadn't missed this story but who in their right mind would write it?

Denton glanced back up to see the byline. _By K. Plumber,_ it read. Now who was K. Plumber?

"Plumber..." he mused out loud. "I'm not sure I know the name."

"Sure you do. That girly reporter, right? The one they had reviewing the flower shows and the vaudeville performances down at the burlesque hall. K for Katherine, you know."

And Denton did. His eyes brightened as recognition dawned. "Are we talking about the one whose father is—"

"Her name's Plumber," Smith said reproachfully. He jabbed at the name on the page. "It's in the paper, Denton. See."

"Oh, I _see_. Katherine Plumber... You're absolutely right. Sorry about that. My mistake."

Clearly mollified, Smith nodded at the page. "Go on. Read it. It goes real well with my snap."

He didn't need to be told twice. His interest piqued, first with the gall of a bunch of nobody kids to take on the richest and most powerful men in New York, then with the brass of this Katherine Plumber making it front page news, Denton was halfway through the first sentence by the time Smith had urged him to start reading.

_With all eyes fixed on the trolley strike, there's another battle brewing in the city. A modern-day David is poised to take on the rich and powerful Goliath. With the swagger of one twice his age, armed with nothing more than a few nuggets of truth, Jack Kelly stands ready to face the behemoth Pulitzer. In the words of union leader Kelly, "We will work with you. We will even work for you. But we will be paid and treated as valuable members of your organzatios." Then he addressed the boys who Pulitzer recruited as scabs—_

Denton looked up from the paper, trying not to give away anything at the mention of Pulitzer in the article. He nodded approvingly. "This is good. I mean, _really_ good!" And then, because he knew it was necessary, he added: "It definitely does justice to your picture, Smith." He pointed to a charismatic looking fellow in the center of the picture, his arm raised high above his head in defiance. "That the Kelly boy?"

"So Miss Plumber tells me. I didn't stick around for introductions, I had to develop my film. It takes a keen eye and a steady hand. Didn't want to ruin these shots."

Denton rattled off a couple more noncommittal responses while his eyes danced across the rest of the article, picking up key words and turn of phrases. Good writing, he thought, though he wondered if the writer was a bit partial to this Jack Kelly fellow. She certainly had no qualms using him as the face of this fledgling newsboy strike.

Aware that he might have lost his audience, Smith clapped Denton on the shoulder and wished him a good night. Smith whistled as he left, telling Denton he could keep the paper since he already brought a stack back home earlier that morning. Denton believed him, too; the first time he made it into the papers, he cut out the article and had it framed. He didn't blame him in the least and waved the photographer off with a congenial smile before turning his attention back to the story.

Girls writing hard news for a paper like the _New York Sun, _how did you like that? Denton smiled to himself, his first real and genuine smile since his train pulled into New York that afternoon. Then he thought about the look on that old crab, Joseph Pulitzer's face when he saw his daughter writing about a newsies strike in one of his rival's papers and he couldn't help but let out a small chuckle under his breath.

As an ace war corespondent, Bryan Denton could feel a war brewing a mile away. This time it seemed both sides might be evenly matched. Who knew? It could be interesting. Maybe he had returned to New York just in time...

* * *

- _stress, 06.19.12_


End file.
